"Dead square," echoed the renegade officer. Darkness now doubled
its black folds, and the roar of the surf boomed sullenly upon the
rocky Rozel beach. Crouching in their cave, the two French thugs
eagerly watched the winding path below, and gathered a resentful
vulpine ferocity in their hearts. With knife in one hand, and the
heavy lead-weighted blackjacks in readiness, they cowered upon the
path, waiting for the old soldier, whose thickened eyes were still
sullenly gazing at the dingy clock in the Jersey Arms. He hated to
leave the pretty, white-armed Ann.
Ten o'clock! The red-coated soldiery of Fort Regent and Elizabeth
Castle, the guardians of Mont Orgueil, were all wrapped in slumber,
save the poor, shivering sentinels. Ten o'clock! The drenched tide
waiters at St. Heliers pier anathematized the still distant Stella,
whose lights now blinked feebly, laboring far out at sea. "An hour
yet to wait!" growled the bedraggled customs officers. Ten o'clock!
The good burghers of St. Heliers had given up their whist, and
taken their last drop of "hot and hot." In St. Aubin's Bay, from
Corbin's Light, from mansion in town, and cot among the Druidical
rocks, anxious eyes now gazed out on the wild sea, where Andrew
Fraser tried to calm the terrified Nadine Johnstone.
Mattie Jones was lying senseless, a helpless mass of cowering
humanity, while the anxious captain and pilot vigorously swore,
as became hardy British seamen.
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